


Realpolitik

by philosophicnachos



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6856555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philosophicnachos/pseuds/philosophicnachos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevelyan is a politician through blood and through nurture, and she'll be damned if she becomes another footnote in the history books as a leader who sold her empire for her Commander's hand between her legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Trevelyan thinks of home, it is the grand library that comes to mind. Endless history lessons as a child, the politics spelled out in excruciating detail: the consequences of invasion, the particularities of sovereignty, the Chantry looming high above it all. The third child stands to gain no more than a few scraps of land as inheritance, but Bann Trevelyan would be damned if his daughter wouldn’t serve the Maker while sharpening her teeth on His altars. The Trevelyans are pious, and the Trevelyans are unbending, and the Trevelyans bowed their heads to the Templar Order and sent their child to take part in the most important political event of the Dragon age.

Never let it be said that one cannot grow taller while bending at the knee.

Trevelyan leads the charge to the Temple of Sacred Ashes because leadership is what she knows best, and she bites her tongue when Haven sings praises of the Herald of Andraste, because Trevelyan is not a total idiot. They may call her the Archdemon itself if it will bring them all closer to sealing that damn hole in the sky. (Later, Varric will jokingly tell her that some of them do just that.)

She admires Cassandra almost in spite of herself. The Seeker would never be a politician with all that solid steel in her spine, but her confidence in their cause allows Trevelyan to fake her own certainty. Even the twist in the corner of Cassandra’s mouth when Trevelyan tells her of her lack of faith in the Maker – even that is an odd comfort in its own right. Cassandra possesses an integrity that Trevelyan loves immediately. She trusts no one else in the Inquisition as quickly and wholly as she trusts Cassandra.

The rest of the advisors follow. Trevelyan trusts Josie for her unshakable ability to bullshit and the sweet smile that betrays genuine kindness; Leliana for her devotion to these people, even as she masks that with her devotion to the Maker (after she finds out as much as she can about Leliana’s part in the Fifth Blight, Trevelyan begins to wonder at what their spy master sees when she looks at Haven. Does she see the Hero of Ferelden as she was a decade ago? Does she see herself, the dragon, the bastard king?). And Cullen – well.

Cullen argues for the Templars, and Trevelyan corners him after their meeting, her arms crossed over her chest and her expression exasperated. “If you choose the Templars, you’ll be making a mistake,” she tells him. The Commander seems like the sort of man who appreciates a direct approach.

It turns out that the Commander is also the sort of man who doesn’t back down in the face of holy women. “There is no guarantee that the mages will close the Breach instead of making it worse,” he argues readily.

Trevelyan scowls. “And what guarantee is there that the Templars will be successful? As far as we know, neither group will know how to fix this mess.” She waves in the general direction of the hole in the sky. It thrums in the heart of her palm if she pays it any mind; she could find it deaf and blind.

“Why the mages, then?” Cullen lowers his voice, the look on his face suggesting that he very much regrets having this conversation in the most populous part of the Chantry.

“Because crushing this rebellion is the stupidest thing that could be done,” Trevelyan says, voice steady but eyes burning. “If we choose the Templars and bring the mages to heel, we will see another Kirkwall Rebellion in a decade’s time. In Kinloch this time, or Starkhaven, or bloody Calenhad. The mages –” She pauses to gather her thoughts and soften her tone. “These people want freedom, Commander. And freedom is the sort of funny thing that demands to be granted in the end, one way or another.”

For once, Cullen seems impossible to read. “And you think they deserve this freedom?”

“Yes,” she says, vehement and undoubting. “Do you not?”

He says nothing, only looks at her as if he is seeing her for the first time. Somewhere behind him a candle flickers and then sputters out. It makes him appear haunted until he speaks again. “I think,” he tells her, obviously choosing his words with great care. “That I cannot pin down whether you are more concerned with the mages’ cause, or the history books that will be written about the actions of the Inquisition after the war is over.”

Trevelyan gives a thin smile. “I don’t presume to do Josie’s work for her, Commander.”

“That is no real answer, Herald.”

“I didn’t hear a question.” Trevelyan holds up a hand when Cullen inhales in preparation of continuing the argument. “I only want you to think on what I said. You have cut your ties with the Templars – what use is that if you do not consider your reasons carefully, if you continue to defend them without thought.” At the pinched look on Cullen’s face, she allows her words to soften. “Your demons are your own, Commander. It is not my intention to make this more personal for you than it needs to be. But these are questions that I must ask. If, after an examination of the situation without prejudice, you find that you truly believe the Templars will be more useful, then I will trust you to know your own mind.” She shrugs. “That’s all.”

Cullen appears to be gritting his teeth, shoulders tense underneath the monstrous mane of a coat. In a second’s pause, he nods tersely at Trevelyan and backs away. “Good day, Herald,” he says, so quietly that Trevelyan can’t read the emotion in his voice. “Stay warm.”

* * *

 

It rankles Trevelyan more than she thought it would, when Cullen does not change his mind. Leliana rises in defense of the mages, and a moment passes between her and the Commander that leaves Trevelyan frowning at them in confusion. Neither Cassandra nor Josephine seem to notice it.

When she brings the mages under the Inquisition’s banner, she expects an argument, or at the very least brooding disapproval. Dodging the daggers of Vivienne’s glare proves difficult enough, and Cassandra looks so angry that Trevelyan resolves to give her space. Cullen’s presence at her doorstep that evening does not promise her day an improvement.

It turns out that he has brought her tea. “You looked tired,” is the explanation he offers, shaking his head at her flabbergasted thanks. “You made a decision, Lady Trevelyan. It is not one I would have made in your position, but –” He pauses looks away quickly, as if it costs something to say this. Trevelyan tries not to resent him for the effort it obviously takes out of him. “I was not in your position. It is done. And I am certain that it is not the end of the world.”

“A ringing endorsement, if I’ve ever heard any,” she remarks. The tea pushes warmth into her Andraste-blessed hands, and restlessness beats itself against her ribcage. Cullen shifts his weight and meets her gaze evenly. In this light, with that scar on his mouth and the snow melting in his hair – if Trevelyan were any more of a romantic, she might call him ravishing. “Thank you again, Commander.”

* * *

 

Trevelyan survives a dragon and endless snow (so white that she thinks she must be blind; all she really sees are shadows the shape of her boots sinking through sand and the Fade eating her palm until it is only bone, the marrow whiter than Haven), follows Solas to a castle in the sky and accepts the Inquisition’s sword, and only then does she look at Cullen and know that she wants him.

Her father sends her a letter no more than a few lines in length. The only one that matters is: _Well done_. It is one thing to be a controversial religious figurehead in league with a fledgling Inquisition. It is quite another to sit at its helm and lead.

It isn’t much of a choice – Trevelyan knows better than to embroil herself in an ill-fated romance with the Commander of her armies. She knows enough history to learn from it. She cannot afford the fallout that such fraternization would bring. Cullen may be pretty and stubborn and capable, but fucking him is not worth the price she would have to pay.

* * *

 

She returns from the Storm Coast looking like death warmed over and feeling even worse. A scalding bath and a nauseating amount of hotcakes later, she finds Cullen at the threshold to her bedroom with a pile of paperwork in his hands instead of a pitcher. He looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“Lady Inquisitor,” he greets her. Trevelyan wonders what her given name might sound like in his voice, and realizes with no small amount of longing that she cannot remember ever hearing him say it.

“Please, Cullen, we’ve known each other long enough that the formality isn’t necessary.” _Don’t be a fool_ , she tells herself, then promptly fucks herself over with, “It’s Ruth, if you please.”

“Ruth,” he repeats, quiet. She isn’t certain if the warmth in her belly is from the way he says it, or the fact that he undoubtedly does it only to please her. “I’m sorry to press on you so soon after you’re back, but we must have these orders approved quickly.” He shoots a quick, almost imperceptible glance at her bed. “Take until the morning to look them over.”

Trevelyan dredges up a small, tired smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

“Of course. And, Inquisitor?” In the space of a breath, Cullen’s hand is at her elbow and his brow is twisted with concern. “When I say morning, I mean well after sunrise. Noon might be more accurate. You need the rest.”

It is easier to focus on the desire to move his hand to her waist, than the warmth tightness in her chest at the show of affection. “So do you, Cullen,” she points out. The next obvious line brings a quick, stupid smile to her face. _Why don’t you take a nap in my bed?_ Cullen returns it, slightly suspicious of its cause. “Good night.”

Maker damn her, she doesn’t sleep a wink.


	2. Chapter 2

The Inquisition backs itself into a corner and commits itself to justice so completely that Trevelyan is left powerful and bound at its helm. She takes in rebel mages and feeds their families and offers shelter to those of them who need it. The strain on their resources varies from month to month. Only thrice has it grown large enough to worry, leaving Josie and Leliana hunched together over charts and provisions lists well into the night, with Trevelyan joining them when she can spare the time. Somehow they make do.

Then the Champion of Kirkwall appears like shadow at Skyhold’s gates.

Varric is different with Hawke in a way that is impossible to pinpoint. After a few days of observation, Trevelyan decides that it must be history. His laughter is the same, Bianca as sure as ever in his grip, but his body language is so responsive to Hawke’s that it seems as though they are tied by a wire. They share a current of something that no one can touch. When Trevelyan chooses Stroud to lay his life in the Fade, it is with a half-thought that Hawke would drag Varric with her if she stayed. As though Trevelyan would step out and watch him disappear from the battlefield in a puff of green smoke, the invisible wire pulling him to Hawke’s side in the afterlife.

But they are alive, Hawke and Varric and the rest of them, even if Trevelyan can’t get the stink of the Fade out of her hair for weeks, and her hand burns so fiercely that she begins to wonder if the anchor might work if she were to cut it off. She would ask Solas, but ends up going to Dorian instead.

“Probably not,” he tells her, honest. “And anyway, you’d never wield dual daggers if we just chop it off like that. What’s the point of a matching set if you only get to use one?”

“I’ll have a spare if I lose one?” Trevelyan grins and ducks away as Dorian attempts to poke her side, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

“I doubt they’ll sing songs of your valor and might if you go around losing your weapons like a scatterbrained milkmaid,” he says.

Trevelyan sighs at him dramatically. “How shallow you are.”

Shallow, but not wrong. She grits her teeth through the pain, and avoids taking off her gloves to spare herself the temptation of driving one of her daggers through the Anchor. She is certain that Leliana notices her fidgeting, as do Josie and Varric, but they stay silent, through the Maker’s grace, and if anyone else sees Trevelyan going mad, they don’t say anything either.

That is, until Cullen accepts the weekly orders from her with one hand, and catches her wrist with the other. Trevelyan is too surprised to flinch away, though his grip is loose enough to allow it. Cullen sets aside the paperwork, solemn.

“What in the hell,” he asks her, kindly; “is going on with you?”

Trevelyan feels her expression shuttering closed, shoulders going stiff. The pain dances on the edge of unbearable, cheerfully fraying her patience thin and ragged. Without thinking, she snaps, “I didn’t realize that transparency is the name of the game with you, Commander.”

Cullen drops her wrist so quickly that her hand hangs in the air for a few seconds longer, empty. He adopts that damn hangdog expression that Trevelyan detests so much – the one that makes him look so martyred that it sets her teeth on edge. She grimaces, and Cullen steps back.

“That was uncalled for,” Trevelyan says, as mild as she can manage. Frustration nips at her heels; at herself, more than anything, but at Cullen too. “Forgive me, Cullen. The lyrium is your business. It’s just--” She waves her left hand around vaguely, and falls silent.

“And this, whatever it is, is yours.” Cullen gives her a weary, tight-lipped smile. “I shouldn’t have pried in the first place.”

The polite, grown-up response is, _You weren’t prying, it’s all fine. I’m sorry for being so dreadful._ Trevelyan can hear the words in her own voice, the light self-mockery that she learned from her mother. It fills her mouth in an instant, makes itself at home in her throat; she watches Cullen watching her as she visibly decides to swallow it all down. “No, you shouldn’t have,” because the Inquisitor’s troubles are her own, untouchable by anyone; “But it may not be so terrible that you did,” because if there is anyone’s touch that Trevelyan craves, it’s his.

  She knows that Cullen understands – not her ridiculous, embarrassing desire to take him to her bed, but the painful necessity of being forced to talk about the shit that wakes her, screaming.

He takes her to the kitchens and pours her a cup of something hot and smelling strongly of mint. When Trevelyan sets her left hand on the table, palm up, Cullen carefully peels off the glove and presses his fingertips into the Anchor’s edges as Trevelyan haltingly tells him how badly it’s hurt.

“You haven’t asked for help?” Cullen asks her, stern but painfully self-aware.

Trevelyan’s gaze doesn’t waver. “It will pass.”

He pauses, like he’s deciding something. Then he sighs heavily at her and carefully moves his fingers from clinically inspecting the Anchor to tangling together with Trevelyan’s. His gaze flicks up from their hands to gauge her reaction.

The contact helps; Trevelyan pushes her palm up until there is no space between them, until they’re skin to skin. She hadn’t realized how brightly the Anchor was flaring until the kitchen dims with its absence. It stings, still, but she can pretend that it doesn’t. She can pretend, suddenly, that the Fade isn’t burning a hole in her bones.

The gold of Cullen’s hair seems the warmest thing in the room.

“It might,” Cullen says at last, his pulse a hammer through his skin.

Trevelyan blinks at him. “What might?” she asks, but the answer doesn’t matter because she is rising to her feet and stepping so close to Cullen that their knees knock together, their palms still connected and the threads of their conversation lost.

Kissing him like this is messy. Cullen parts his legs to allow her space to move even closer as soon as her free hand slides up his neck and into his hair. If Trevelyan didn’t know any better, she’d think that he’s wanted this even longer than she has, been eager for it from the moment they met. It would be a damn shame if it turned out that they could have been doing this before Haven burned.

“Ruth,” Cullen gasps into her mouth, so characteristically sweet and bare. She murmurs _yes_ , her own voice unrecognizable. _Please_. The Inquisitor does not beg, but Trevelyan sure as hell does.

The Anchor’s light is blinding when she pulls her left hand away to cradle Cullen’s jaw. They both flinch away from it. Cullen looks at her, the warm brown of his eyes somehow unholy in the new light. Trevelyan staggers back, jaw clenched against the pain.

“I think,” she says, clipped; “that this is a good time for both of us to get some rest.”

“Yes.” Cullen doesn’t look like he needs rest nearly as much as a cold bath; he gets to his feet as Trevelyan backs out of the kitchen nonetheless.

* * *

 

Trevelyan is sick of the old argument, the circles they all keep dancing around each other: Leliana – fierce in her defense of the mages; Cassandra and Cullen – martyrs reformed. They all know where Trevelyan stands, but they choose not to involve her most of the time. Josie watches them, as tight-mouthed as she ever gets.

“People have died at the hands of the Templars,” Trevelyan says today, enunciating clearly and watching for Cullen’s reaction like a hawk.

He turns to her readily. “Mages have needed to be—”

“And mages aren’t people?”

The silence crackles for only a moment before he grits out, “You know that isn’t what I meant.” Trevelyan sneers at him, merciless.

“We are all here repentant and reformed, Commander,” she says. “But we all have been complicit, in one way or another, in the murder and persecution of the people we have sworn to protect. Nothing will relieve us of that responsibility.” What she means is, _your demons will not relieve you of that responsibility_.

She knows, from the way that he won’t meet her eyes, that he understands.

Later, when Cullen corners her outside of the War Room, she tells him about the Chantry’s hand around her throat since before she was born, about the families her parents had torn apart to please the Maker. _Just because you know better now doesn’t – ah – does not mean you weren’t wrong before_ , she whispers while he licks a path down her throat. _True sinners never stop repenting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's sexier than Discourse am I right??

**Author's Note:**

> say [hello](http://philosophicnachos.tumblr.com) if you'd like!


End file.
